Inner Sanctum
Inner Sanctum
Author’s note: Smutfic! The response to a challenge from a friend to write a scene where Sir Percy and Margot are almost caught in flagrante delicto, hence the PWP? nature of this ‘story’.
Marguerite heard only the double doors jump in their frames, pushed put and pulled back by a sudden draught in the entrance hall; her mind made the necessary connection between this small disturbance and the return of her husband. She felt as though she had been caught in an illicit act: blood rushed up from the décolletage of her gown to colour her lightly powdered face, her eyes flashed wide towards the doorway, and her heart was pounding so violently that every beat registered upon her breast.
Hastings was thankfully quick to notice her agitated state: dragging his eyes from her wild beauty, he followed her intent gaze towards the doorway; he had heard nothing, but knew what must have roused her from the torpor of table conversation.
“Go,” he whispered, lightly touching her gloved arm with the very tips of his fingers. Marguerite’s burning eyes drifted to meet her friend’s kind gaze, and she started up from her chair without thinking; the other guests politely turned to her and began to rise from their seats.
She flashed a desperate plea to Hastings, seated beside her.
“I shall handle everything, but go!”
Smiling warmly at him, and turning a diluted, apologetic expression towards the other six people invited to dine at her grand home, Marguerite dropped her napkin onto her chair before breezing out of the room upon light toes.
As the doors were pulled softly to behind her, Marguerite found herself just in time to witness Frank leaving the study with his master’s caped greatcoat draped over one arm. He gave a neat bow, his impassive face betraying no reaction to her sudden presence, and stepped back to open the study door for her. The sharp aroma of newly-lighted kindling greeted her as she stepped over the threshold, and there, lighted only by the growing fire and a desk lamp upon a table, stood the tall, powerful silhouette of her husband.
He glanced over his shoulder, and then turned slowly to face her, waiting for Frank to close the door before he dared move any closer. Marguerite pushed impatiently at the handle, listening for the valet’s retreating footsteps on the other side; she did not look away, her glittering eyes fixed upon the loved form not five feet away from her.
“Percy,” she sighed, and he was suddenly close to her, folding her trembling body into his embrace.
His coat felt damp with cold, but she relished the crisp scent of the night air that lingered in his clothes. He always carried the alien aroma of the Pimpernel when he came home to her, a vague unfamiliarity that could not be washed away or dressed in fresh clothes aboard the Daydream on the return passage; it was the physical presence of a stranger, jarring against the familiar fragrance of their home together. Before she said anything else, Marguerite pushed the offending coat from his strong shoulders, stripping the sleeves from his arms with one swift tug.
Percy frowned in bemusement, studying her eyes as they darted over his waistcoat and shirt. “Would Madam have selected a different travelling ensemble?” he teased.
She looked up, the slight grimace of distaste about her mouth easing into a self-conscious smile. “You never smell the same,” she explained, slipping her arms around his neck.
He flicked his tongue over her lips. “You taste of oranges.”
“We have just started on dessert,” she told him, breaking their deep kiss.
“I should have gone to my club in the city,” Percy mused. “Did you tell them I was home?”
“I told them nothing,” she confessed, drawing the curl of her mouth into a teasing pout. “Let them guess.”
Marguerite stroked her slender fingers against her husband’s face, her gentle gaze bathing his features. His eyes seemed heavier than usual, weighted with fatigue that she would attribute only to the journey home, and he bore a fresh bruise beneath the shade of a day’s stubbly growth, the suggestion of which could not be avoided. Her fingertips traced along his jaw line, dancing over lips which quickly widened into a smile; he pressed a kiss to her touch before her exploring hands drifted down to the linen at his neck.
“Tongues will be wagging,” he warned his wife, who was working at the knot of his cravat. She doubled the material back and forth on itself and pulled it from around his throat.
“Then perhaps I should return to the table?” Her heart was fluttering in her throat, and when she raised her eyes to meet his, the look she gave him betrayed her light words.
Taking the linen from her, Percy lightly draped it around her neck and pulled her in. Still holding onto both ends of the cravat, he gently traced the knuckles of his fingers across the rise of her breasts. Drawn back to the sweet taste upon her lips, he leaned in to tease at her mouth with his tongue, and Marguerite responded to his touch.
“I’m sure there are oranges left,” she sighed, tilting her head back to accommodate the path of his kisses, “if you so enjoy the flavour.”
“‘Tis not the fruit of Spain I seek, but France,” he quipped, stooping to press his lips to the tender rise above the neckline of her gown. He raised his hands from her waist to the fastenings at her breast, releasing the first few hooks before she was able to stop him.
Her eyes flashed, but the light in them was from excitement, not offence.
“You are not the gentlemen you pretend to be,” Marguerite murmured, her glance drifting to the triangle of his chest exposed by the relaxed shirt collar. She wanted to know if his skin still held that slightly musky, clean-scented fragrance that she would seek from his nightshirt in his absence.
“I am trying my damnedest,” he replied honestly, and the urgency in his voice brought Marguerite’s eyes back to his; there was a wild longing in his appreciative study that made the breath catch in her throat, a flush of colour rising up from her chest.
When he reached for her again, she did not resist; she hadn’t wanted him to stop in the first place, fearing only that they would be interrupted, but now that thought, as well as consideration of her guests, was becoming a distant concern. Percy gripped her waist and pulled her in, his lips burning against her forehead, her cheekbones, the hollow of her neck, until he caught her mouth and they merged together in a deep and questing kiss. She slipped her hands between their bodies, exploring the contours of his chest beneath shirt and waistcoat. The skin beneath his collar was cool and damp with sweat, but her probing fingertips revealed to her that he was also burning with the same passion currently flowing through her own veins.
Oblivious to everything save instinct, they stumbled backwards, wrapped in a clinging, desperate embrace, until the door came up behind them and Marguerite backed into it with a thud. Pressing her against the wood with his body, Percy hooked his fingers into the false front of her gown, this time without encountering protest, and rapidly began to free her from its confines. When he had unfastened the bodice, Marguerite guided his hands beneath the flimsy layer of her chemise; he pushed at the material, stripping it down to the supporting shelf of her stays, and then curved his great height to press his lips to her trembling, flushed nakedness. Hungry to touch him, she reluctantly held him back so that she could drag at his clothing, pulling at the buttons on his waistcoat and forcing his shirt back over his broad shoulders, until he grew frustrated with the distance between them and tore free of the material himself. She allowed him to push her back against the door, her tender breasts mashing against his strong body. His slick skin felt like fire beneath her hands, and she drew reassurance from his familiar taste.
Hooking one knee behind his leg, she raised her skirts and he took them from her, lifting the hem up above her garters. A stir of air caressed her thighs, and Marguerite savoured the contrast of heat and coolness as she waited for Percy to unbutton the fall on his breeches. He ran his hands towards her backside with a thrilling urgency, filling his palms with the sensual flesh there before lifting her against him. Marguerite curled her stockinged legs around him as he carried her across the room towards the fire, supporting her with graceful ease.
She could feel his heavy, rapid heartbeat next to her own, and the stirring heat of his body as they moved against each other. Opening her eyes, Marguerite glanced upon the face she loved as her husband lowered her down onto the leather club chair beside the hearth. “How I have longed for you,” he whispered, and then pressed his lips to both of her small hands as they rested upon his shoulders.
As he pulled her forwards on the chair, parting her legs around his hips, Marguerite fought back an urge to ask him how he could desert her so frequently if he desired her as he claimed; it was an obvious and honest question, and she sometimes thought about his answer as she watched and waited for him on lonely evenings. Could he ever be happy with just their love? Would he always need to satisfy his adventurous spirit and prove his honour before he allowed himself to enjoy the privileges and success of his life?
“It is not my wish that we should be apart,” she told him, in spite of herself. Percy traced his lips along the curve of her neck, savouring her faint, familiar taste. “Why do you leave me?”
“I am afraid to take you for granted, my love,” he sighed, sinking back onto his folded legs. “I want to almost forget that I know every inch of your beautiful body, so that I can return and gaze upon your splendour anew; so that I can caress each curve, and taste your love like that first night.” Percy rose up on his knees, gathering her into his arms. “Margot, your very perfume inflames my senses! A glimpse of your hair from across a room surprises me even now, and I am so proud to think that you are my wife - if you should turn and meet my eyes, I am lost within you.”
Marguerite gasped, as if she had forgotten to breathe in. “I feel the same,” she whispered, her trembling fingertips seeking the contours of his face. He hungrily pressed his mouth over hers, and she twined her wrists behind his neck, drawing him down against her. His hands slipped beneath the rich layers of her skirts and petticoats, meeting burning flesh that reacted to the slightest touch, and every muscle in her tall, slender frame tensed in anticipation. She released him and pushed herself away from the chair back, stripping out of the open bodice to reach at her tailbone for the ties of her stays.
“Help me,” she breathed into his ear.
“Margot -” Percy began to protest, but then held her to him and worked at the laces behind her. It was foolish and dangerous, here in the study, but he was beyond all precaution; he wanted to be with her, feel how their bodies fit together as two halves of a whole, press lips to lips and toes to toes.
Stripped of silks and supports, Marguerite rose to her feet before him. Percy gazed up at her, his heart pounding in his throat. He lightly touched his hands to her waist, and she gave a start; kissed her stomach, and she sighed; cupped her breasts, and she moaned. When he threaded his fingers through hers, drawing her down to him, she lowered herself on knees that were weak and trembling. She freed her hands to press herself even closer to his body, caressing the smooth, warm flesh of his shoulders as he reached behind her to free her hair from its combs and pins.
Drawing his fingers through the curls that tumbled down her back, he inhaled his fill of that unique perfume he had longed for since the last time - the musky scent of her hair and the rose water on her burning skin; natural, scented, but yet wholly hers. The heat between them, increased by the growing flames in the hearth, escaped as a gasp of steamy air as they parted from their embrace; their skin was aglow, glistening in the firelight.
A smile dancing on Marguerite’s parted lips became soft laughter.
“What?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Just that -” He was holding her waist, and she reached for the fingers of his right hand to press them over her breast. “Feel this!”
“It matches mine,” he told her.
She transferred the hand that covered his to return the gesture. “Ah, yes,” she whispered, lightly raking her fingers through the golden hairs on his chest. “Are they beating in unison, I wonder?”
“Of course.”
“Let me see.”
As she moved against him, he slipped a hand along her thigh and gently lowered her sideways onto the cool silks of her discarded gown, rejoining their bodies in front of the fire.
“Can you feel how they belong together?” Percy asked, propping himself above her with one elbow to watch her face. She glanced down between them, studying his chest resting snugly against hers and their legs intertwined below.
“Yes,” she breathed. “I can always feel it.”
With his free hand he swept away the curls that clung to her forehead, combing them back into the molten stream of her hair. His fingertips traced along her temple to the curve of her cheekbone, then to her jaw line and the dip of her throat, before following her collarbone towards the valley between her breasts. Marguerite could only hold his passionate gaze, her skin tingling as her body followed the path of his fingers.
When he parted her legs, his touch drawing her thighs towards him, she was at once aroused and yet deliciously relaxed at the same time. Her hand stroked along the hollow of his back as he lifted himself above her, and she held him as he measured his body against hers, feeling their dual heartbeats.
Their lips met in a hungry, seeking, possessive kiss, and he reached to lift her thighs around him.
“Sir Percy?” A subdued yet definite tapping sounded against the study door.
Percy started, levering himself away from Marguerite. She stared at him, her eyes wide and alert, and then scrambled up against the chair.
“Wait outside, Benyon!” he called, clearing his throat. “What is it?”
“Ah, Lord Hastings, sir, was enquiring about Lady Blakeney,” the butler answered. “The ladies have retired from the dining room, and the gentleman will soon be finishing their drinks. Will my ladyship be rejoining her company?”
Marguerite pressed her lips together, and then smothered her mouth with her chemise, dampening her nervous laughter.
“Ah - no,” Percy answered, holding a corner of Marguerite’s gown over his lap in an absurd attack of modesty. “Her ladyship is - indisposed. Please apologise to the guests for us - her.”
Silence followed, and then from the other side of the door: “Yes, sir.”
Upon the sound of Benyon’s receding steps, Percy sank forward, resting his forehead against the arm of the chair.
“Now, could the Pimpernel have handled that any better, I wonder?” Marguerite asked from behind her gag. He rolled his head to look at her, and met a spark in her blue eyes.
“I think even he would consider retiring after such a scare, my dear,” Percy groaned, closing his eyes. “What a - forgive me, Margot, I was selfish -” he started to add, but she pressed her fingertips to his mouth.
“I was here too, remember?” she asked, moving forwards to press her lips to his bare shoulder. “I didn’t want you to stop. I wanted you.”
He gathered her crumpled chemise from where she had dropped it in the chair and handed it to her. “This could have caused a great embarrassment-”
“Nonsense!” Marguerite retorted, holding her shift instead of covering herself. Percy took it back from her lazy grip, and shook it out. “I couldn’t possibly get dressed. I’m far too hot, it’s like Paris in August,” she added.
“Margot, stop playing,” he pleaded. “We have to get out of here without -”
“I thought you enjoyed chancing your luck?” she challenged him.
Percy looked at her sharply, his eyes reading hers. “Would that be me - or the Pimpernel?”
“There is no difference,” she replied honestly. “Your real mask is the part you play for society; I fell in love with the Pimpernel, with Percy Blakeney, not a languid baronet.”
“Careful, m’dear,” he warned, raising his eyebrows. “If the Pimpernel is not an act, who is to say that I am playing at the baronet?”
“I insist upon it,” she smiled. “Three men would be too much, even for me.”
Percy touched his lips to hers, his fingers drawn back to her hair as he held her to him. He swept the falling tresses away from her face, cupping her head with his hands, and she rose to her knees with him.
“I think you had better be careful,” she whispered as they joined together, stirring doused passion into a fire again. “Or your secret will be exposed.”
“Our secret,” he told her.